Low Blow
by whitchry9
Summary: Written for the H/C bingo prompt: confession in desperate situation. While falling unconscious, Sherlock's judgement is poorer than usual, and unwisely decides to tell John about an experiment he performed.


"John!"

There was an edge of panic in his voice. Like when he thought Mrs Hudson had fallen down the stairs, or the time he got third degree burns on his arm from his single cooking attempt, or that one time he had gone completely blind from an experiment.

It was these times that John came running.

So John finished subduing the criminal, fastening his wrists with makeshift handcuffs in case he woke up, and roughly threw him to the ground, skidding into the next room where the panicked Sherlock stood.

"What?" he asked breathlessly, not seeing anything immediately wrong.

Sherlock spun a bit, just enough so John could see the needle sticking out of the back of his arm.

In a flash, John had pushed Sherlock into the nearest armchair and carefully examined the needle before removing it. He eyed it suspiciously.

"Do you feel okay? D'you know what was it in? How'd it happen?"

"Yes for now, no, and I suspect it was when he ambushed us when we came in," he replied, answering the questions in order.

"You suspect?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, John. It all happened rather fast."

John turned his attention back to the needle he had removed from Sherlock's arm. It was empty. Cautiously, he sniffed it. He felt Sherlock's curious stare and turned to glare at him.

Sherlock shrugged innocently and began getting up.

John almost missed it because he had returned to examining the needle. _No trace of colour, clear fluid, smells very bandaid like, perhaps..._

Sherlock stumbled. It was almost imperceptible, would have been, to anyone but John.

_Oh damn not that..._

"Sherlock, are you sure you're feeling fine?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock insisted. Except he looked the slightest bit unsure. Unsteady. Unbalanced.

"Right," John replied as he pushed him back into the chair. There was no resistance.

"I'm fine John," Sherlock protested wearily. But he was working hard to enunciate his words and John picked up on that.

"Dizzy? Shaky? Nausea? Weakness? Palpitations?"

Sherlock nodded weakly.

John didn't need to ask if he was sweating because he could see it, even though Sherlock was shivering.

_Damn. I hate when I'm right. _

"How full was the syringe? Sherlock! How full?" he demanded.

Sherlock struggled with that thought for a moment, before whispering, "all of it".

"You just sit there and don't move, okay?"

Sherlock only blinked, doing just as John asked. For once.

John fumbled with his mobile as he ran to the kitchen and pawed through cupboards.

Lestrade picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, yeah, it's me. We're gonna need backup and an ambulance where ever the hell we are right now."

"What did he do this time?" he asked, managing to sound both exasperated and concerned at the same time.

"Not really his fault," he hedged, digging through the cupboards, finally finding what he was looking for. "Sherlock!" he called, returning to the chair where the detective was sitting. His head bobbed slightly. "Eat these. Just do it," he warned, seeing Sherlock's suspicious glance.

He returned his attention to Lestrade, who had continued talking. He caught the tail end of it.

"...and I warned you, and you never listen. John are you even listening now?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied distractedly, watching Sherlock dutifully munch on glucose tabs. "But listen, it's not his fault. The guy was waiting for us and ambushed him with a needle. He must be diabetic, cause he injected Sherlock with a big dose of insulin. Hurry that ambulance up, okay?" He cut off Lestrade, who was still protesting, and focused his attention on the detective.

"How many've you eaten?"

"Three," he whimpered.

John could tell it wouldn't be enough. Sherlock was struggling to stay conscious.

"Keep eating," he urged, feeding them to him like a baby. But also similar to a baby, Sherlock turned his head, refusing them.

"John," he slurred, barely a whisper.

"What Sherlock?" he asked, leaning in close.

"I did... I did use your...mug... in my experiment... but... I cleaned it...alil... bit..." he trailed off.

"Sherlock," John demanded, slapping his face until Sherlock's unfocused eyes looked in his direction. "Are you talking about the one with the flesh eating bacteria?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, a wide grin spreading across his face. His eyes slid shut again.

"When you are conscious enough to be able to remember this, I am going to kill you," he muttered.

Of course, he didn't actually. But the next day, when Sherlock had recovered, having been discharged from the hospital the night before, he personally supervised Sherlock taking his mug to the lab so he could use the high tech equipment to properly sterilize and disinfect his favourite mug. As well as a number of other kitchen utensils Sherlock admitted to using.

He also had to do the dishes for the rest of the week, but John gave up on that, figuring at the rate Sherlock broke dishes, they would have none left at the end of the week.

How that man could be so adept while doing an experiment and so extraordinarily clumsy while doing a chore was beyond John's comprehension.


End file.
